CHAPTER 13
PENNY REACHED THE BREAKFAST PARLOR BEFORE CHARLES the next morning, rather surprised to find him so tardy.
In the mornings, Ellie never came until she rang; she had rung eventually, once Charles had left, which had been after he’d demonstrated yet another way of reaching heaven. Heaven. For her money, it was still the sun; heaven was too mild and peaceful a concept to describe the reality of where they’d gone. Let alone how.
She felt buoyed, wonderful, on top of her world. She’d never felt so physically glorious in her life. On the emotional front, she’d kept a close guard on her heart; she was managing perfectly well there. As in trusting Charles with her family’s secrets, she’d been right in letting him be her lover again; she could go forward without reservations.
Sweeping into the parlor, she exchanged a nod and a good morning with Nicholas, already seated at the table’s head. Crossing to the sideboard, she made her selections; returning to the table, she sat, and from beneath her lashes considered Nicholas. He seemed less distressed, more focused today. Had he, perhaps, gone out last night?
No. She and Charles would almost certainly have heard any hoofbeats on the gravel drive. Had someone called on him privately in the night?
She pondered the possibility while attacking her ham and toast.
“Ah—there you are, my dear.”
She turned as Charles entered, met his eyes, and wondered what the message in them meant.
Strolling toward her, he cocked his head. “I wondered if you’d care to ride this morning? I have business in Fowey.”
He was now close enough for her to see the exasperated expression in his eyes. She realized. “Oh, yes! Good morning. Indeed—a wonderful idea.” She glanced at the sideboard. “I daresay you’ve breakfasted, but would you care for something more?”
Looking back at him, she caught her breath at the unholy light dancing in his eyes; she replayed her words, didn’t dare breathe…but he merely smiled and inclined his head. “Thank you.”
She exhaled and returned to her toast.
Casting a surreptitious glance at Nicholas, she saw him not quite scowling at Charles’s back. Nicholas’s guarded greetings when Charles came to the table and took the chair beside hers suggested Nicholas had finally realized how consistently Charles was about.
Although Nicholas shot her a disapproving glance, good manners prevailed, and he made no comment.
Charles, apparently blissfully unaware, mentioned meeting Albert Carmichael at Lostwithiel market the day before.
Nicholas professed never to have met Carmichael.
Penny explained the Cranfields’ interest, then had to remind Nicholas who the Cranfields were.
“Ah, I see.” Nicholas took a long sip of coffee, then shifted his gaze to Charles. “Has there been any advance in your investigation, Lostwithiel? Any suggestion over who is responsible for that luckless young fisherman’s death?”
She had to hand it to Charles; he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid or pause in cutting his roast beef.
“Yes, and no.” His tone was cheery, as if discussing the latest price for fish. “For various reasons, it seems unlikely the killer was anyone normally resident in the area.”
Nicholas blinked. “Why is that?”
Charles sat back, reached for his coffee cup. “Gimby wasn’t killed—he was interrogated, then executed. It was a professional piece of work.”
Nicholas looked like he was going to turn green again. Looking down, he picked up his fork and pushed a small mound of kedgeree across the porcelain. “So…no one local…”
“No. Which is why I’ve been assessing all visitors to the area.”
“Vagabonds?” Nicholas’s brows rose. “Could it be just…no, you said professional.”
“True, but there’s no reason a professional might not have appeared as a vagabond, but if killing Gimby was his only purpose, he’ll be long gone by now. Still”—Charles shrugged—“I might draw a bead on him.”
Penny kept her head down and her tongue still, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want Nicholas distracted.
After a long moment, Nicholas asked, still not meeting his eyes, “Only purpose…what other purpose do you imagine this villain might have?”
Gallic shrugs were so useful. “Who knows? But it could, for instance, be someone who didn’t want me to be able to question Gimby, not, as one might suppose, to protect whoever Gimby might have betrayed, but because he, this professional, is on the same quest as I am, and he doesn’t want me getting to the Holy Grail first.”